Long Phrase Poems
Long Phrase Poems. Below are the most popular long Phrase by PoetrySoup Members. You can search for long Phrase poems by poem length and keyword.
My step dad, Eldon, long since passed away,
was known for some expressions he would say.
like when he was in traffic and in back
of some bad drivers. Then he’d call them “ Jack.”
Sarcastically, to make us laugh, he’d spout:
“I don’t have all day, Jack; just back it out!”
Of course, those “Jacks” would never hear him say
those snide remarks. We girls laughed anyway.
Those few rare times my sisters and I got
together with our husbands, we could not
refrain from talking in our stepdad's way.
One spouse can mimic well things Dad would say.
My youngest sister has a husband, Kyle,
and his impersonations make us smile.
His “Eldon” style and tone are really keen,
especially when he says real slow. . . “Nowwww, Jean.”
“Now, Jean” was Eldon’s catch-phrase for our mom
when trying to console her. It caught on!
When I’m a bit upset, my husband might
say to me “Now Jean” to keep it light.
It’s pretty cool to think when you’ve passed on,
your funny phrases aren’t completely gone.
I hope my dad is looking down to see
amusing words stayed in our memory!
Deep down I know that you would still be here
wearing that ring I gave you by the beach
me, basking in that warmth having you near
all that I ever wanted in arm's reach.
Head tilted to one side your eyes would ask
what lingered on my mind as my gaze swept
your face, giving no clues beneath my mask
of all the feelings for you that I kept.
Priorities back then came to the fore
between both them and us you made me choose
with hindsight now, if you had known the score
you never would have asked, knowing you'd lose.
Though 'in another time' is just a phrase
the choices that we make cement our days.
For contest 'in another time', sponsor ir0nic zinc
DICKINSON PHRASIS part 11
Today has been a fair day,
very still very blue.Tonight
the crimson children are
playing in the west.In that
pallid land the simple call
sleep,the wind blows its
gentle measure in my ear.
‘Tomorrow it will be cold’.
How sweet if I could see
you then.I would not repine,
knowing that bird of mine
though flown,learneth beyond
the sea,a melody new for me
and … will return.
Letters of Emily Dickionson ed Mabel Todd 1894
A Phrasis is a structured verse where the poet uses selected prose phrases of another writer’s (out of copyright) prose to compile unique poetry therefrom as a tribute thereto,the word phrasis is Greek for phrase.
Listen to me recite this phrasis trilogy on youtube under my pen name ichcthyschiro
The year was 2021 and Christmas was fast approaching,
Fear and uncertainty were seeping into every corner of daily life,
Good will was at an all time low throughout the land,
With Covid spreading faster than the gossip surrounding it,
The people cried out in vain, many going insane,
Few safe in their own company for than a week.
With those in power throwing in the towel,
The situation was grim indeed,
Is this the end becoming the catch phrase?
Who would have thought that once again poets?,
Would be called upon to save the day,
With style and wit, the pens began scratching,
And keypads started overheating,
As out of the mist that hung over the many backwaters and lonely bye-ways,
Poems filled with the spirit of Christmas past began to appear.
As one after the other poets on the soup took up the call,
With other forums soon taking up the challenge,
To light another candle of positive thought,
And push back the darkness,
Saving Christmas for another year,
Giving those who threw in their towels,
Or failed to take sound advice,
Another chance to put things right in 2022.
A few things represent me:
The color grey for example,
She's a beaute, isn't she?
I've felt drawn to her, especially when my soul had been just that, grey.
It has then gone on to taint my soul, my heart, my mind at every occasion.
It would have been a crime not to paint my destiny in her.
But what else is there?
The familiar scent of rejection?
The agonizing taste of nostalgia?
No?
Maybe the 21 awards I'd trade without a sigh's moment worth?
The glasses that crack due to the heavy weight maintained in my scalp?
The hauntingly mesmerizing words turned sour?
A promise I'm not morose in person?
I've often heard that you'd rather lay eyes on my soul's vessel than hear the cries of the same very soul.
Of course, I've only ever heard it from the third layer that daunts my soul, the very one that hurts at the mention of it.
She's obviously accompanied by Grey;
Like a fairytale in a child's dream, they become inseparable.
But heed her warning.
Stay away from the sharp turn of phrase that she takes, because soon you'll be a spectator to the ever-running show of gut-wrenching twists that is my mind.
since there is a saying
“noble man walks on the thoroughfare”
Don Quixote abandoned the shortcut-side-road,
steering Rosinante, dashing into the highway
while he was riding on the highway
something suddenly came into his mind
a proverb “the middle way is the golden mean”
he reined the horse into the middle lane looking at the horizon
where the road meets the sky
as he steers the horse it begins loping
the knights overtake Rosinante with their fleet steeds
they swear and finger at Don Quixote with dirty looks
“you scumbags!” Don Quixote yelled to the rude riders
“since the swallows don’t understand the will of wild geese,
why not quickly go back to your hangouts and chant Vedas”*
brandishing lance and at the same time, unknowingly, spurring
the horse
to mitigate his angers he prodded Rosinante to a full gallop
at that moment, a dragon flickering its red and blue eyes
from above came on the cloud and attacked him
as Don Quixote raised his lance
the dragon belched fire from his mouth
and the fire swallowed him
he collapsed on the spot
became a lump of charcoal
*Note: In Chinese character, sound of Sanskrit word “Vedas” (??) spells as bark on first letter, which is the compound letter/word of “mouth and dog.” The phrase “Chant Vedas” metaphorically implying “bark”
Majesty
Who is the image of God?
Is it man?
Is it me?
Perhaps, that is the case.
That this race is to be ruled by the masculine, phallic paradigm,
Perhaps the rhyme and reason of the universe is the work of one gender,
But I know of a woman,
Who challenges such notions,
To become, To be, the gentle fabric of my being,
That was her role for a time,
But am I to define her?
I think not,
For she is a raging fire of possibility,
Her abilities out sway all of my greatest potential,
And as she discovers her power,
I marvel,
For only she could convince me,
That above me, my God cannot be defined by the androcentric bias which often
time maligns my rhymes,
That above me sits a woman as well as a man,
Who beckons to my fate and calls me to her land,
For Sophia saw in me, what this world would not notice,
And told me I could make it, when all would count me lost,
Machel I tell you, she saved me from hell,
And yet that is not her destiny,
She is Isis rising,
She is Michael descended in female form,
To be loyal to the end,
That was her mantra,
And she stood by and endured me,
Ascerbic tongue and all,
As I fall as I rise, she believes I’ll reach the sky,
But even that is not her definition,
She is a phrase too sacred to utter,
She is a word, like Maudib, too powerful to be spoken in fancy,
I tell you to be worthy of her,
To aspire to believe that I was worthy of her,
Has been my greatest challenge and joy,
To become would she knew I could be,
Has been torment and elation,
It has been a journey of introspection and transformation,
Which almost killed me,
And still I struggle,
To submit to her ascension,
To put aside my selfish glory,
That her story may unfold,
And the world may see the wonder of a brilliance untold,
To be a husband to my Sophia,
And a father to the blood stained Diamonds she bears,
This is the greatest journey,
This is the ultimate victory,
And though I fail time and time again,
Because she knows I’ll make it,
Because she believes that I can become what she sees within me,
I will rise to the majesty of her countenance,
And know manhood.
1
We say the word, “mental”,
like we would spit.
But there are no pills
for waking dreams;
the pills that we
could only take in dreams
to take us to another place
as yet imagined
as everything the tortured soul
could conjure.
And perhaps we are so strong
the torture
is our heartbeat.
The waking dreams
like baseball bats
might beat us
into ditches
of self-loathing,
then lie with us
the way dark friends would do
and tell us there is comfort
in familiar suffering.
We can touch the mental
like a weed
and treat it
with the swipe of energy
that only comes
when arms react
to smite the one
that would threaten them.
2
All things come to those who wait,
the adage goes
and so we do
as we are told
and hope there is trust
in the world.
But as we
twiddle thumbs
and scratch our names in wood
that never was a tree
we are the silent ones:
the kids of parents
who imagined
that what they'd heard
and spoken and done--
the slap, the strap--
would do the trick
in place of hearts
that never cared to beat.
3
“Mental Illness”
is the phrase they use
for ignorance; not knowing
what to do
or how to do it.
“I did all I could”, they say
in the face of ruin
and imagine they are right
because the cannot know
responsibility or competence
or caring.
Art is colors on a wall.
Music is notes pounded
on some keys.
God died the day
he was invented
and the children of the living
must now wander
as the spawn of negligence.
We can only hope
that somewhere souls remember
and that through the years
they grow to be an army
to claim what bodies have survived.
4
“F**k you”, I say to beauty
or anything else that passes
for conviction
or truth
or hearts we tell ourselves
that we possess.
Beauty is masturbation.
Love is the perversion
we ejaculate in darkness.
I would be glad
for one true voice
that says that heaven
is at hand
and mean the painted streets
as gray as any dawn
we'll ever see
is all we can expect.
Tell me one good cup of coffee
is Nirvana
and I'll drink it
and be thankful
to be free
of chains that bound me
to the rock of longing.
Write for me a love poem.
Use words I long to hear.
Tell me of your love for me,
And that you hold me dear.
Tell me that you love the way,
Light plays upon my hair;
That starlight twinkles in my eyes,
And that you find me fair.
Tell me of the first time,
When you became aware,
That it was I who stirred you,
When first you knew you cared.
Tell me how your heart beat,
Increases when I'm near.
Tell me that to lose me,
Is your only fear.
Speak to me of moonlight,
Soft breezes, gentle things;
Lovely words that touch the heart,
And cause the soul to sing.
If you cannot find the words,
To make my heart beat faster,
Then read some poems of long ago,
The sonnets of the masters.
They new how to turn a phrase,
Could touch your very soul.
The words they wrote reach out through time.
Such words just don't grow old.
Speak to me of beautious things;
Words soft as a silken glove.
Speak the words I long to hear.
Speak to me of love.
Oft we hear that trite, well-worn phrase,
"Oh! How I long for those good old days!"
I admit at times I pine for those days and reminisce,
Comparing costs then and now and other things I miss.
You could fill your Studebaker's tank for about a dollar.
If gas exceeded nineteen cents a gallon, my how folks would holler!
Fifteen cents would buy a triple crowned ice cream cone,
And you didn't pay outrageous surcharges for a telephone!
Mr. Sears would send stuff to build a house for a thousand bucks,
Or, for about a thousand more, a splendid beauty far more deluxe!
A car cost about six-hundred bucks if bought from Mr. Ford,
Some with a rumble seat and of course a standard running board!
You'd pay ten bucks for weekly grub, more than you could tote,
And for five bucks, provide each of the kids with a winter coat.
For a nickel a Clark or Power House candy bar could be had.
A quarter would get you to a movie, with popcorn, I might add!
Alas, the cost of living will surely rise for each coming generation.
Fellers smarter than I blame it on something called inflation!
Years from now the grandkids will look back and tearfully recall,
That the house we paid twenty-thousand for wasn't bad at all!
Robert L. Hinshaw, CMSgt, USAF, Retired
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